Ten Minutes
by Shenlong7
Summary: Ten Minutes is becoming a huge difference for The Spirit, especially when a murderous barber comes into play. What is his connection to the Octopus? Why is P'Gell wanting The Spirit to save her from The Octopus? Rated T for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

Ten Minutes

Disclaimer: I do not own the Spirit and hope that I can make a translation somewhere between Eisner's vision and Frank Miller's Spirit. If not than I do apologize. Also this is taking into account that the Spirit resides somewhere in the DC universe.

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Sometimes at night having a blizzard is blessing in this city, it keeps all the innocent bystanders tightly snug in their beds, oblivious to the shootout that was going on outside. Then again it's sometimes a curse because if the blizzard didn't create a roaring noise that masked the gunfire, little Sally Donerfield wouldn't have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night for a glass of water. The stray bullet that pierced through the walls of her house wouldn't have struck in the chest and maybe her family wouldn't have woken up to find her corpse in the living room. But you can't take things back and the night before, the blizzard had been a curse to two people. The first was little Sally because she was in the morgue and the second was Salvatorre Sinestro, one of the few mobsters in Central City. Most would have moved up North or to some other place like Gotham, but there were about two who decided to stay here.

My city has enough crime to keep it busy to have the Mafia here and when the girl died I had had it up to hear with Salvatorre. Luckily, Salvatorre was making things easy for me by getting involved in a weapons smuggling ring that was providing high powered weaponry to the average hood. All I had to do was find one of the many gangs that had bought weapons from him. I found three. They were gathered together in a rundown bar in one of the slums of the city, like some kind of convention for badguys. The Turks, the Rangers, and the Crazy 7, three of the dirtiest gangs to ever walk the city streets, all gathered together. And I was watching them all with my eyes, floors don't creak on me now.

"You hear about what happened in the papers," asked one of the nameless thugs dressed in a leather jacket with a red seven on it. "One of Salvatorre's men got into some police trouble and wound up shooting down three police and some little girl who was out of bed for some reason in the house behind the police. This has got to be top level shit we're carrying now!"

"Hey don't go mouthing off things or else we'll get some unwanted attention," hissed a Turk as he looked around to see if anyone was listening. The Turks were always the more cautious crew and probably the smartest crew because they were always cautious around police officers and bars.

"Screw you, pansy, we've got enough guns and balls to run this city," spat the Crazy 7, probably one of the higher members of the group coming to negotiate something. "And you all can run something with us as well, that is if you're willing to play ball with us."

"You know, it's funny I thought the 'Crazy' was only an aesthetic choice," said the person in charge of the Ranger crew, a silent set that kept things quiet in their part, but were without the numbers that the Crazy 7 had. "This city has about a hundred other gangs, three mob families, and a criminal mastermind lurking underneath the rocks. Plus being loud these days has found harsh opposition."

"Oh you're talking about that Spirit bastard," laughed the Crazy 7 who was probably not as drunk as he sounded, but he was still probably drunk enough to be easily taken. "I'm just saying look at the guns we're running, that's enough for us to take down any opposition that we meet, including that Spirit. As soon as he shows his red tie wearing face he's gonna be as dead as Star Trek!"

"Man I gotta take a piss," shouted one of the Crazy 7 unceremoniously, one of the big dumb models that was probably so drunk that he couldn't punch the side of a barn house from one foot away.

"Hey shut the hell up while I'm talking, Jax," snapped the leader as he shot a glare to his subordinate.

"Jesus, sorry Axle," said the cowed gang member as he walked into the bathroom of the rundown bar. It was amazing how the place was staying up when everything looked like it might fall into ruin at any given second with few tattered chairs that were probably there since 1920.

Most of the furnishings on the walls were either torn or layered with a greenish-blue mold that was actually an improvement to the fading remnants. Most of the beer or booze was tapped into a stolen keg and instead of coming from the pipe, came straight from the keg because the pipes were rusted. The air reeked of urine, blood, and smokes, more so than usual. I told myself that when I was done there I would have to send his clothes to the dry cleaners or perhaps have them burned and just buy new ones.

I followed the gang member named Jax to the disgusting bathroom that had grime and rust covering nearly everything in the room while water spouting from a broken faucet that had a wrench in place of the handle. Jax took his time in picking between one of the two acceptably clean, using the loosest term of either 'acceptably' and 'clean,' and so I waited with his back to the door. By the time the gangbanger was washing his hands I had already slipping into the room like a shadow and before the man realized it, I had him in a chokehold.

"Where's Sal dealing his guns," I asked in a quiet but menacing tone that only helped in the build up before I really started to get rough.

"Like hell I'm telling you," spat the gang banger as he thrashed around and I could see that he was reaching for the gun he kept in his side arm. I grabbed the arm and twisted it. "You're makin' a big mistake trying to push somethin' on us!"

"You already made a mistake," I say as I tighten my grip. "You didn't flush."

The thrashing before seemed to be like a baby's movement as Jax started thrashing under me trying to breathe through the urine water that was in the filthy toilet he forgot to flush. He was probably going to be mad as hell when I let him up so I made sure to hold him under until it started to become life threatening to him. My new friend tried to flush the toilet to drain the water but I easily pushed it aside. Finally he came up.

"Now listen carefully, if you try to shout I'll keep you under there long enough to make you come up, understand," I barked. It was louder than it should have been, but luckily the music in the bar was loud enough to mask my voice. Probably wouldn't have mattered if Jax had shouted, but then that'd only allow him to calm himself down and I didn't want him clam just yet. "You can either tell me what I want to hear or you can try and see what disease you get from swallowing a mouthful of that piss water. You're choice."

"He keeps his weapons in a van in the bottom of the Rhenada Hotel, but it's always heavily guarded," said Jax, taking his time to throw up some of his own piss.

"A word of advice Jax, this game is too tough for you to handle," are the last words I said to him before walking out of the bathroom and right into the bar to make the police's job easier. Jax is smart enough to leave the party through the bathroom window and if he's smart enough, I'd never see him again.


	2. Chapter 2

II

The clue had sent me to a nicer change of scenery, one of the finest hotels in Central City and the finest mob owned. The two other mafia members decided to keep things to their yachts while moving in contraband brought in from the harbor. I made sure to change clothes before walking in there, my outfit catching attention as I walked to one of the booths in the hotel bar. This was definitely a better bar than the last one I went to. For one, everything was crafted with a nice elegant cloth over soft cushions that were easy on the back and supported by exquisite wood work.

Then there were the choices which were five hundred more than the gang member's bar. I ordered a whiskey without the rocks, the outside was cold enough. If stares could bore through you then I'd be more holy than the Pope. With the eyes of Sal's cronies glaring down at me, I drank my whiskey, enjoying the way it went down my throat until a hand tapped on the table. I looked up to see Sal the man himself glaring at me with his vulture like eyes. There was no crime in what I was doing so I had no problem with him being there. My biggest problem was the shady individual sitting at a table with a briefcase right next to his right leg.

"You've got interesting company, is he supposed to be an arms dealer," I asked as I pointed at the man. He was very pale with slightly smoothed back black hair and dressed in a black vest with striped black pants and a white dress shirt.

"He's just a customer, but my biggest problem is you," said Sal as he snapped one of his fingers and one his cronies grabbed me by the arm. You'd think someone with a lot of money and a lot of human resources would be smart enough to know that I could claim self-defense if I ever had to explain why I beat up his entire crew.

I pulled the goons hands forward bringing him right into a punch that knocked him back and with a carefully placed foot, pushed the table up on the ones who tried to grab for me over the table. Most people gasped in surprise as the fight broke out, but others were rushing to join in, some, surprisingly enough, were on my side. That all good except Sal would probably be bringing out guns soon from the van and I was hoping that I could bring him in on those charges but instead he started running off to one his panic rooms.

I moved my way through the brawl and left the rest of the trash to the capable hands of the citizens of Central City. A shot rang out over the crowd and I turned around to see that one of the goons had been packing a pistol with him. Picking up one of the circular trays off a room service cart, I threw acquired discus. After years of throwing sewer lids I became accustomed to Frisbee throwing. After seeing the gun fly out of the thugs hand I ran off towards the direction that Sal ran into. That was my mistake of the night, rushing into the lion's den without watching where I was going. It was no wonder that I was knocked out by someone lurking in the corner.

By the time I had woken up I was being tied to the chair right next to a large grey van that was slightly scratched and sprayed with graphitti. The van was probably overlooked because it looked like it didn't run anymore and was just left there while Sal claimed that no one would pick it up. I looked up to stare at the big looking thug in a white tank top to show off his muscles obviously an indication that the bat in his hand was for a purpose and I wasn't going to like that purpose, not one bit.

"So you're the Spirit," said the greasy tank as he started to swing the bat in his hand like a kid at baseball practice. His hair was greased back and was styled into one of the poofy 50's styles. "I envy that name. The name's Frank Viola. I'll be the one beating you up."

"Viola, does that mean you play instruments," I asked and in return my face is introduced to a wooden bat, but I couldn't blame him. The joke wasn't that funny. The first strike is on the side of my face, nearly cracking my teeth and breaking my jaw. The second is on the back of the head, a typical mistake because I didn't feel the next one. I feel the one on my shoulder and the one on my stomach.

"You're as tough as I expected you to be," said Frank as he stopped to wipe the sweat off his brow and then tossed the cloth down to the floor. "I'll be back to finish you off after I get a beer. Stay here."

As bruised and beaten as I was, it was still a mistake to leave me alone like that. It was difficult but after shifting a bit in my ropes I started to slip into a good position to get at the knot. While whoever tied had definitely known what they were doing, it was still no Gorgon's Knot. Plus with the chair being an old one, the right amount of pressure caused the back to give away easily as I pushed forward and out of my bindings. Slowly I climbed to my feet and walked over to the van to take a look. After peering inside I could see that I had found what I was looking for.

The sound of movement to my left told me that Frank was coming back from his beer, probably ran into Sal who chewed him out for not looking after me. Out of the shadows of the area between the first garage light and the doorway light appeared one of the other goons coming to check on how I was doing or finish me off. I never found out which one since I knocked him out to make sure he didn't run off to tell the others. The crowbar that I had found next to the van had been one of my lucky breaks. I slowly snuck past one of the guards who was peering into the maid's dressing room and then decided to perform a civic duty and hit him on the back of the neck with the crowbar.

The first thing I noticed as I entered Sal's panic room was that it had its own bar, something that seemed as redundant as hell, but then again, if you got it, flaunt it. Frank was sitting at the bar, just as promised, with a few of his friends all finely dressed and a bar tender who was dressed like a butler. The things you could buy with a few thousand dollars. From the way Frank pushed himself from the table I could see that he was definitely not pleased with me being loose or that I was holding the weapon this time around.

"Christ, how did you get out," stammered Frank as he started to pick up the bat that he left on the counter, obviously so that if I was found he could dispose of it easily before the police found it for evidence.

"I got tired of waiting so I thought we could just finish it here," I said before lunging at the group of goons, my crowbar going out first to knock a few on the head real hard.

"You just made a big mistake," said one of those thugs who was lucky enough not to be caught in the attack.

He reached into his coat but I kicked him onto the counter of the bar and gave him a good punch in the throat to take away his breath. That gave me enough time to counter the big behemoth who tried to ram me from the side, but I used the back area of the bottom of my heel to guide him off course into the wall. When the other thug finally got his breathe and was about to pull out a gun, but I had expected that and before he could pull it out, I delivered an uppercut that was followed by a hook. The man dropped like a sack of stones. That left only Frank to deal with.

"Biggest pain in my ass this whole day," cursed the thug as he charged at me with his bat and took a powerful swing that actually dented my crowbar when I blocked with it.

"Now I'm a pain in your stomach," I barked as I brought a foot up to his abdomen and kicked him back.

I didn't give him time to recover as I started to pound him into oblivion, starting with a fist to his jaw, another to his nose, then I knocked him on his right so hard that he spun around down the bar counter. He looked dazed and bruised, but he was still up and he'd probably shake it off if I gave him time to recover so I gave him a kick to his stomach so strong that he was knocked off his feet. Finally Frank was knocked out and his nose was bleeding pretty badly.

"I'm sure the police can have that nose fixed," I said as I walked onto the main building where Sal himself was sitting. "Now it's your turn Sal."

As I opened the door I first caught the smell of blood mixing with the lingering smell of released bowels, the common smell of murder. Then I saw Sal sitting in his chair with his throat cut and bits of shaving cream on his face. Someone was posing as a barber and then cut his throat, either someone hired by a rival family or a violent vigilante who had a harsh since of justice. I looked out of the open window to see a figure walking past a corner. It was a brief glimpse but I could see that it was the same shady character that I had seen down at the bar. The irony of it all was that Sal had called him unimportant. You were wrong Salvatorre, he was more important than me. At least one positive thing came out of your mistake; the gangs won't be getting any of your guns anymore.


End file.
